Keep Walking
by Glitterglue
Summary: audible sigh i wrote fluff. i'm sorry. riddick reaches the afterlife.


Disclaimer: not mine

A.N. This has been sitting on my computer for a while, ever since I saw the second movie. I love the idea of Riddick/Jack but I had promised myself long ago to never write a sappy afterlife piece, or at least write one and actually post it. When I wrote this it was more for myself than anyone else. Anyway, here it is.

It's a normal enough street he guesses. But that's just a guess for someone who's never been too sure of what normal enough even is. It could be anywhere, little houses with little yards. Some apartment buildings, quaint shops. There's trees in the distance, he can make out water behind it. A lake, not large, and beyond that, desert. It's not surreal, which is what he had expected. The sky doesn't shimmer, there's no music in the air. Just a hot sun and an occasional breeze.

_No goggles_. It's the first legitimate thought in his head. No need, anymore.

There are people strolling around, carrying shopping bags and holding children's hands. Some are in a hurry, glancing down at their watches every few steps. He wonders what they could possibly be late for, in a place like this. It's hours before he sees someone he recognizes.

"Well well well," A southern drawl drifts down from the porch to his left. A slim and sturdy form leans forward from it's reclined position on a wicker rocking chair. "I can't say I expected to see you so soon," it continues.

Riddick growls in response. He can see a jagged scar they appears to make it's away all the way around Johns' neck. Leftovers of their last encounter, he assumes.

"Give me one reason to not come up there and cut your throat."

Johns chuckles good naturedly, something they both know for certain he's not. "How about the tiny fact that I'm already dead. And obviously, so are you, if you're here." He has no reply to this. He just clenches his fists, staying his hand from reaching for the shiv that's no longer strapped to his side.

"It's takes getting used to," Johns confides in a lower voice. "They don't tell you that when you first get here. Everything's exactly the same. And everything's different." He rubs the necklace of scar tissue. "But eventually all the differences fade." He takes a swig of his beer before continuing. "No obvious marks on you though, not on your head anyway. What'd they do Riddick, get you through the heart? Heard you've got one now. For _her_. Gotta say, I didn't know you liked 'em so young."

"Fuck you, Merc."

"Not a merc, not anymore, not here. Listen, I'm going inside. You keep walking, killer."

It's quicker than he thought it would be when he sees her. She stands in the middle of the sidewalk, hands in the back pockets of her jeans, waiting for him. Her house looks nice enough, smallish, white washed, forget-me-nots in the windows. He thinks that's appropriate, because he hasn't.

"Johns rang ahead and told me you'd be coming this way. I'm just as surprised as him, figured you had years left in you, before you got here, I mean." He notices she hasn't moved her hands or blinked since she saw him coming. Her words are fast and breathy.

_She's nervous_, he realizes. _She missed me_.

"Carolyn…" He says, thinking that more words will come after he just gets that name out of his mouth. They don't, those three syllables weigh down his tongue. Her hair is longer than he remembers, and she looks younger. This must be how she was before him. Before trying for them. Before dying for them.

She shrugs awkwardly, "I don't know what else to say either. There's so much I've wanted to ask you, especially since they got here-."

"They're here?" He blurts. There's a flash in her eyes, maybe hurt. Her understanding, she's not the person he wants to see. She's not even second place. He hopes she can satisfy herself with the fact that there would be no places at all without her. _Trying. Dying_.

"Yeah, he lives on the edge on the forest, with his boys. She's close to him, nearer the desert. She refused to live here with us."

"Us?" he questions.

"Me and Owens," she explains. "We didn't…we didn't really have anyone else." He nods, relieved that Carolyn isn't alone.

"How long do you think it'll take me to…?"

"Half an hour to him, an hour to her," she states.

"I'll be back, Carolyn, to answer those questions of yours."

She shrugs again, even stiffer this time in a poorly executed display of indifference.

"Keep walking, Riddick."

There's laundry hanging from thick cords between the tress. He's close before he can see a white turban popping up and down from behind the rows of damp cloth. He smiles despite himself, a wolfish grin. He can feel the skin around his mouth stretching unnaturally, it's been that long since he smiled.

"Isn't that woman's work, holy man?" he picks up on the startled gasp coming from a clean sheet, and his grin widens as the Arab man stumbles out from behind it. "Or at least you could get one of the boys to do it." He suggests lightly.

Imam shakes his head in disbelief, looking his former companion up and down with mild shock. "The boys are inside praying, Mr. Riddick. And we have no woman here. My wife and daughter…"

"Are fine." Riddick finishes the sentence for him. "I made sure of that. They'll be a while before they get here, anyway."

"Shall I call for the boys, they would be greatly pleased to see you again?" Imam asks.

"Maybe later, I'm kind of on my way somewhere else right now."

"I understand. She'll be…pleased to see you too."

Riddick smirks. "Only pleased?" he questions before turning to go.

"Wait, Riddick!" Imam calls after him, "How did you die?"

"Animal tranqs in my dinner. Then a spear in my chest." He lifts his shirt to reveal a silver dollar sized pock mark over his heart.

"Ahhh…you must not have been paying very good attention." Imam scolds. He scowls when Riddick only chuckles.

"That way," he points into the forest. "Just keep walking, Richard."

Maybe he hadn't been paying enough attention. He's not sure. His pride wants he to say he didn't, couldn't know. But a quiet and underused part of him admits he probably had. It's ironic in a way. Before her, he didn't have anyone to live for and that was preferable. After her, he had no one to live for and so he just let it happen. Let them take him away. You keep what you kill, he hopes the Vaakos are pleased with the ruined army he left for them.

It's not a house, what he finds. It looks more like half of a duplex, asymmetrical and tilted, like it's missing parts of the structure. There's a kitchen with scorch marks on the walls from failed attempts to cook with a bathroom off the side, tube of toothpaste with no cap on it. Cozy bedroom, well worm couch. No phone. A punching bag. He doesn't panic when he fails to find her, something he doesn't understand. Suspicion is usually a natural part of his existence. Instead he grabs a beer from her near empty refrigerator and sprawls out on her front steps.

He sees her coming before she sees him. She walks casually, no rush, down a path that runs along the desert. She holds a paper bag, she's humming. She notices him about a 100 feet out, her body freezes and she drops the bag.

"Riddick," she says, desperate to maintain some composure, failing desperately to do so.

"Kyra," he responds, standing shakily.

"Jack," she corrects firmly. He raises an eyebrow at her but she only stoops down to pick up her parcel.

"What's in the bag?"

"Zeke and Shazzah made me dinner. They do once a week."

"Think there's enough for two?" And that's all it takes. She crying and running for him and he catches her and feels his breath snag painfully in his throat.

I missed you I missed you you stupid girl you stubborn man I missed you I'm here now you're here now I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry

Clothes get in the way. They stumble together towards her bedroom but only really make it to the couch. And it's nothing like they thought it would be because everything here is different and everything here is they same and as they lay there together all of the differences seem to fade.

He knows her body had been covered in scars before, in their other life. From flying beasts and slams and whatever hell she had run away from in the first place. Now there's nothing, just two matching silver dollar sized pock marks on her back and middle. Same size, same shape as his. He brushes his hand against them as she moves to find a more comfortable position on the tiny couch, most of the room being taken up by his sizeable bulk.

"You didn't need to do this for me, Jack."

She shakes her head. "Yes I did. I did need to do that for you. And no, we don't need to talk about it anymore. It's done, it's just done, Riddick."

He sighs in agreement, and with relief, and with something that looks an awful lot like contentment.

"Is it gonna be like this forever? Just like this?"

"That's the impression I got." She whispers.

"Good."

It all just fades.


End file.
